


Bad Blood

by knubbler



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, but also doomstar current, pre-DK, shitty past-tense angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knubbler/pseuds/knubbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickles experiences the shittiest deja vu</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Blood

**Author's Note:**

> the tiniest drabble i'm sorry

It's 1995 and Pickles has just hurled a half-empty bottle of Coors at Charles, screaming that he's not worth the beer spilled on the floor. He knows he's only making it worse, but he'd rather be angry than sorry. The glass is shattered on the doorframe and Charles is retreating into his room and throwing his briefcase around and telling Pickles in no uncertain terms what a shithead junkie he is. Somewhere in the back of his mind Pickles feels satisfied that Charles is engaging at all instead of sulking, and he's content to yell until Charles emerges with a bag of clothes and a handful of paperwork. 

Pickles is still mumbling vague abuses when Charles pulls him into a hug. He's whispering apologies, says he thought he could help him, but soon all Pickles can hear is the blood buzzing in his ears. He watches Charles leave, unsure of whether he successfully waits for the door to close behind him before a gasp tears from his throat. The rest of the night is blurred, but he's fairly certain it was spent laying on his shitty couch sobbing into a bottle of rum, trying not to think about the 36 thorazine tabs that Tony dropped off earlier that day.

Pickles blinks and he's standing up to his ankles in snow, listening to Charles wax poetic about finding Toki and the greater good and his fucking contract. He can see the look in his eye, though, even though Charles hasn't so much as glanced at him for several days. He knows what's coming and it feels like a knife in his gut. Charles' words are fading out and all Pickles can hear are their counterparts from twenty years prior.

I can't do it. I give up. I quit.

The rest of the band stands dumbfounded watching their manager disappear into the snow, but Pickles is already headed back to the dethcopter.


End file.
